


Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me

by bumblebi221



Series: Waiting for You [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual John Watson, Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, Christmas, Depressed John, Dinner, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, Halloween, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injured John, Injured Sherlock, Internalized Homophobia, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, New Years, Past Abuse, S4 isn't real, Suicidal Thoughts, Who's to say?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27752287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebi221/pseuds/bumblebi221
Summary: When Mary shoots Sherlock, the detective goes into a coma for months, leaving John to pick up the pieces of his shattered life and forcing him to grapple with his feelings for Sherlock.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Waiting for You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043274
Comments: 15
Kudos: 80





	1. Shattered

**Author's Note:**

> I had the idea for this while reading the amazing meta on S3 and S4 by thewatsonbeekeepers on tumblr. I highly recommend reading it! It's amazing!
> 
> And yes, I've named another fic after a song. It's by Elton John, it's really good, and even if you've heard it you should go give it another listen now.

John Watson was more than used to dealing with the unexpected, but nothing could have possibly prepared him for what happened one calm evening in July, during what was supposed to be a simple unarmed burglary. Only seconds ago, Sherlock had fake-proposed to Janine in an effort to break into Magnussen’s office, which appeared to be a simple enough endeavor. When they buzzed in, she had grinned and let them up, but by the time the lift had reached the top floor, John and Sherlock instead found her lying face-down on the floor, unconscious. Her head was bleeding; she had clearly been hit from behind. She was alive, though, and breathing steadily, so she’d be alright in the end.

“Janine?” John shook her gently. She murmured softly in response and her hand shifted slightly.

“Another in here,” said Sherlock, walking into the next room. The man at his feet was bald, dressed in a suit, and had an earpiece in. “Security.”

“Does he need help?” John asked, looking up from his charge.

“Ex-con, white supremacist by the tattoos, so who cares? Stick with Janine,” answered Sherlock. John dutifully turned his attention back to her, and attempted to gauge her consciousness.

“Janine, focus on my voice now. Can you hear me?” he asked. Then he realized something. “Sherlock,” he whispered, getting up from his spot on the floor. “They must still be here.”

“So is Magnussen, his seat’s still warm; he should be at dinner but he’s still in the building,” Sherlock whispered back. He looked up at the ceiling. “Upstairs.”

“We should call the police,” said John, pulling his phone out from his pocket and preparing to dial.

“During our own burglary? You’re really not a natural at this, are you?” hissed Sherlock. John sighed, all too used to Sherlock’s attitude. “No, wait! Shh!” Sherlock sniffed deeply, looking for something specific while John went back to check on Janine. “Perfume, not Janine’s,” he said after a moment. “Claire-de-la-lune. Why do I know it?” he asked.

“Mary wears it,” offered John.

“No, not Mary, someone else,” dismissed Sherlock. Then he tensed up, which John knew meant he had realized something important.

“Sherlock!” John hissed, but it was too late. The detective had already dashed off to another room, and there was no stopping him when he had narrowed in on something. First and foremost a doctor, John stayed with Janine. He set to work on waking her up and stopping the bleeding. Then it happened. The gunshot sounded through the otherwise quiet rooms, alerting John and confusing the already-disoriented Janine. Then, a second shot.

“Stay here, Janine, I’ll find out what’s happened.” As if she’d go anywhere else. John followed the source of the shots. Sherlock had come unarmed, so someone else must have fired the gun. As the thought hit him that Sherlock might have been harmed, John hurried his pace. He ran upstairs to Magnussen’s private flat. He ran from room to room, growing increasingly frantic as he found no evidence of a fight, and no people, either. Finally, he entered the bedroom, and his stomach dropped. Sherlock was lying on the ground, surrounded by a growing pool of blood. He’d been shot in the chest. Magnussen, also surrounded by blood, had been shot in the head. A figure clothed all in black, with a black knit cap and a gun in their hand, was standing between them, facing the window so that their face wasn’t visible. “No,” he breathed. It wasn’t possible. Sherlock couldn’t be dying. He was Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, though it was barely audible. His breathing was shallow and labored, and his pulse was slowing. Footsteps pounded rhythmically behind him and a helicopter whirred overhead. Dozens of soldiers clothed similarly to the mysterious figure but clearly in official uniform passed him and surrounded the shooter. John ran towards Sherlock, his dying friend taking priority over whatever else was happening.

“Dr. Watson, step away from him,” said a familiar voice. John didn’t listen.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, please. Wake up,” John pleaded, his voice breaking. He searched for something to stem the flow of blood, to stop Sherlock’s life from slipping away. “Help me, please. He’s dying. Oh God. Sherlock.” John shook Sherlock, tears forming in his eyes. Then arms hooked underneath his armpits, and he was being dragged away forcefully to the far end of the room, away from Sherlock. “No, he’s my… he’s my friend, please, I need… he’s dying.” Just like last time. Paramedics ran in and loaded him and Magnussen onto stretchers, attaching oxygen masks to Sherlock’s face - Magnussen was a lost cause - and hurrying them by lift up to the rooftop where the helicopter was waiting to take them away. John watched until Sherlock was totally out of his sight.

Then John turned to the group in the middle. The shooter put up a serious fight. At least four soldiers were knocked unconscious. Then six more soldiers ran towards them and knocked them to the ground. Four of them pinned the shooter to the ground while another slapped handcuffs over their wrists. The last of the six withdrew a needle and sedated them. Finally, John caught a glimpse of their face.

It was Mary. His wife. The woman with whom he had sworn to spend the rest of his life, the woman carrying his child, the woman who had been there for him when he thought his best friend in the whole world was dead. And now she had killed that best friend. She had shot him right in the heart, and another man was lying dead by her hand, too. The woman he loved. This couldn’t have been Mary, there was no way. And yet there she was, lying unconscious with the gun being pried from her hands.

“God, no. No, please, no.” John shut his eyes tight and let out a choked sob.

“Dr. Watson, I ask that you please remain calm,” said the voice again. Mycroft. John turned around as well as he could from his restrained position and glared at him. Mycroft was dressed in a perfectly-tailored gray suit, leaning on his trademark umbrella. He was watching the soldiers drag Mary off somewhere with a thoughtful stare. He seemed not in the least concerned that his little brother was dying. Above them, the helicopter roared to life again and then faded as it flew off towards the nearest hospital, and the remaining soldiers were milling about the room, awaiting further orders from Mycroft.

“Mycroft, I’m going to ask you something and if you want to live to see the daylight, you’re going to answer me. What the hell is happening?” John growled.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

By the time John and Mycroft had driven to the hospital, Sherlock had already been admitted and was receiving emergency treatment. Doctors rushed in and out of his room, and there was lots of talking, and John was frankly overwhelmed. He was used to medical emergencies, but now Sherlock was the one dying on the gurney. His face was paler than normal from the loss of blood. The gunshot wound had stopped bleeding, but now there was just a dark red hole, in the middle of a purple bruise. Sherlock had been shot in the chest, and some of his lung tissue had been damaged in the process. He was struggling to breathe, even with the oxygen mask. Mary - why, Mary? - had just barely missed his heart. The beeping on the monitor became slower, and slower, and then he flatlined.

“Sherlock,” John croaked, rushing over to him. The doctors tried to push him aside, to get to their patient, but John couldn’t be moved. “Please, Sherlock. Stay. Don’t go, please, Sherlock,” John’s voice shrank to a whisper.

“Sir, do you mind moving?” said an impatient doctor as gently as he could. John stood frozen, unable to move or say anything, looking at Sherlock’s closed eyes. He was just sleeping. That was all. Tomorrow he’d be awake. John felt himself being guided over to a seat against the wall, and watched with an empty stare as the doctors tried to revive Sherlock. Finally, they gave up, and they pulled the sheet over his head.

“No,” said John, voice broken. He felt sick, and his chest hurt. He shut his eyes tight and put his head in his hands. Tears flowed through his fingers, dripping into his lap. When he finally lifted his head, his face was red and blotchy, and covered in tears and snot. Hospital staff came and went, some attempting to ask how he was, some ignoring him. After a while, he realized he had been given a blanket and a cup of ice chips. Midmorning, however, brought a miracle.

John had somehow managed to drift off to sleep, albeit fitfully, and was snoring quietly when a noise startled him awake. The monitor beeped back to life. But Sherlock had died, hadn’t he? John, still dazed and sleepy, ran over to Sherlock’s bedside. His chest was rising and falling slightly. He was breathing, and it was shallow, but he was alive.

“Doctor,” John called, voice still too broken to shout. “I need a doctor!” He pressed the button to call the nurse and soon one came running in. She immediately noticed the beeping, and her jaw dropped. This didn’t happen often. She summoned more doctors, who immediately began to check Sherlock’s other vitals. They checked his gunshot wound again and applied new bandages. John, meanwhile, was in shock. Sherlock had died, and then listened to him and had come back to life. Again.

Soon after Sherlock had started breathing again, Mycroft returned.

“Hello, Dr. Watson,” he said.

“Did you know?” asked John.

“Pardon?”

“Did you know that Sherlock... that he’d be okay?” Mycroft looked over at Sherlock, still in a vegetative state. He hadn’t woken up yet, but he was breathing steadily, which was promising.

“I thought he would at first. Then when I heard he’d flatlined, I thought that was the end. But now that he’s breathing again, I’m quite relieved,” Mycroft admitted.

“What happened?” John asked. “At Magnussen’s office, I mean. What… what was Mary doing? Why were you there so quickly?” Mycroft looked down at his shoes, then up at the ceiling.

“I can’t tell you here. The information is still rather sensitive. I’ll send someone to pick you up later so we can discuss in a more discreet location,” he said. John nodded. Before long, Mycroft quit the room and left John alone with the still-sleeping Sherlock. The whir of the machinery and the steady beeping of the monitor soon made John doze off again.

John slept uneasily. His dreams were filled with images of Mary in her shooter outfit, and she kept killing Sherlock. John tried to stop her, but he never could. He woke up to someone tapping his shoulder. It was Anthea.

“Are you ready to leave, Dr. Watson?” she asked, looking at her phone. John wiped the sheen of sweat off his forehead and took a deep breath. He was still a bit shaken from his slumber.

“I suppose so,” he said, getting up from his chair. His muscles were sore from sitting in it all night. He stretched, set the blanket down on the chair, and walked over to Sherlock. He looked different when he was sleeping. He looked more vulnerable, as if he didn’t encounter serial killers on a monthly basis. He looked peaceful. “Sherlock, I’ll be back soon, alright?”

Mycroft’s location of choice this time was an abandoned factory by the river. He was waiting patiently on the second floor.

“Greetings, Dr. Watson,” he said.

“Hey, Mycroft,” answered John. “So, you said you’d tell me what’s happening?” Mycroft nodded.

“I did. You might want to sit down,” he warned, gesturing to a chair that looked out of place in the run-down factory. John, however, had been sitting in a chair all night, so he opted to stand. “Would you like me to explain the whole story, or would you prefer to just have me answer your questions?”

“Just tell me what happened,” said John impatiently.

“Very well. It began back in 2011, when Moriarty shot himself. None of his followers were expecting that. They were left confused and leaderless, and for the most part dispersed. One of his followers, however, was determined to get Sherlock for what he’d done to their leader. She was one of his snipers, and was in fact one of the ones at the pool the day you first met Moriarty. That follower was Mary Morstan, Dr. Watson.” He paused. “She knew Sherlock was still alive, and she used you as a means of getting closer to him on the occasion of his inevitable return. She’d been planning to kill Sherlock since that day on the rooftop. We’ve been monitoring the situation for some time.”

“No,” said John. “That can’t be true. Mary… we love each other, she married me, and she likes Sherlock. She’d never do that.”

“I’m afraid she did.”

“Why Magnussen, then?”

“He had information on her attachment to Moriarty, and was planning to use it against her. She was going to kill him. Then when she found out you and Sherlock were planning to break in the same evening, she saw her opportunity and tried to kill Sherlock as well.” John shook his head and sat down on the chair. He felt sick again.

“How couldn’t I see that? How…” he trailed off. “What’s going to happen to her?”

“She’s under arrest, and she will be going to the most secure prison possible. I don’t think she’s too inclined to escape, seeing as she believes she killed Sherlock. However, she is pregnant.”

“With my child,” said John bitterly.

“She will be escorted to all necessary appointments, and she will be escorted to the hospital when it comes time for her to give birth. She’ll have handcuffs for all appointments except for when she’s in labor,” continued Mycroft. “What with my resources, normally we’d be more humane, but she is a serious threat.” John nodded and looked at the ground. This was really happening. His pregnant wife was really arrested for shooting two men. Mycroft continued to tell him the details of the arrangement, but John was no longer listening. He just stared vacantly at the line where the wall met the floor. Before long, it was time to leave. He got in the car with Anthea.

“Where to?” she asked.

“The hospital,” said John without hesitating. He didn’t want to go home. And he promised Sherlock he’d be back. Maybe he’d even be awake now. Anthea relayed his directions to the driver, and they drove off. But Sherlock wasn’t awake when John returned. He was still sleeping, eyes closed tranquilly.

“When will he wake up?” John asked a nurse.

“Sir, Dr. Matheson didn’t tell you?” she said, looking at him sadly.

“Tell me what?” John asked, his stomach sinking.

“He’s in a coma,” she said gently.

“A coma?”

“A vegetative state. We believe he’s still conscious, but he can’t-”

“No, I know what a coma is. Why is he in one?” he interrupted, voice breaking. “Why him?” The nurse smiled sadly and shook her head, unsure of what to say. John spent the night in the chair again, wrapped in the blanket. He couldn’t stay asleep for very long, as he kept having horrible nightmares similar to the ones from the previous night. Imagined gunshots would make him jolt awake, sweating and breathing hard. But then within an hour he’d unwillingly doze off again, and the nightmares would return.


	2. Haunted

The next day John awoke, tired and miserable. He had barely eaten, save for small snacks from the hospital cafe. He hadn’t showered or changed clothes in two days, and he was overall in a very unfit state. Since there wasn’t much to be done about Sherlock, the doctors and nurses had gone, leaving John alone with his thoughts until interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said in a croaked voice. The door opened to reveal Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. They had brought flowers and cards for Sherlock, and set them on the bedside table. The room would’ve looked almost cheery if it weren’t for disheveled John. He didn’t smile or greet his friends when they walked in; he merely nodded at them.

“Oh, John,” said Mrs. Hudson sympathetically. She came over and gave him a hug. John hadn’t realized how badly he needed one until then, and he collapsed, arms tight around her. After a moment they pulled away and the guests turned their attention to Sherlock.

“When’s he going to wake up?” asked Greg.

“Well, he’s in a coma, so it could be a few days, a few weeks, a few years…” John whispered the last part, as if perhaps that would make it impossible.

“And there’s nothing we can do?” Greg asked.

“There’s some stuff that’s supposed to help, but we don’t know much about comas, so it’s hard to say. Stimulating the senses is thought to aid recovery. Wearing strong perfume, talking to them, holding their hand, things like that. Did you know coma patients are still conscious? It’s like they’re sleeping,” rambled John, speaking in a monotonous voice.

“Well, Sherlock, if you’re listening, please wake up,” said Greg. “I’ve got loads of cases waiting for you,” he added. He smiled sadly at his sleeping friend. The four of them stood there for a while, not saying anything. At last, Greg’s watch beeped. “Oh, I should get back to the office,” he said. “Bye, Sherlock. And John, just know that we’re here for you. And take a shower,” he added, attempting to lighten the situation.

“I’d best be off, too,” said Molly. Mrs. Hudson nodded. The three of them made for the door, but at the last second Molly turned and walked back over to John. “Hey, um, what Greg said. If you ever need to talk, or if you just want to sit silently, I’m here. I’ll listen. Okay, bye,” she said, smiling nervously. John nodded and she left. He sat back down on his chair and wrapped the blanket around him once more, keeping watch over the vulnerable, comatose Sherlock.

“You should listen to Greg,” he said. “Wake up.” But the patient kept sleeping. “You’ve missed a lot. I should probably fill you in. If you can hear me,” John said with a bitter chuckle. “Mary shot you. Though I suppose you knew that. You were facing her when she shot you. She’s arrested now. My wife. Arrested. For shooting you.” He paused, and his eyes stung as tears tried to force their way out. “She worked for Moriarty.” His voice was a whisper. “Sherlock, I need you to wake up. I don’t know what to do anymore. Nothing makes sense.” He put his head in his hands. He didn’t see Sherlock’s hand twitch.

Around midafternoon, a doctor came in to check on Sherlock. He saw John, ragged, disheveled, tired, sitting in the corner. The blanket used like a shield to keep any more of the world from bursting in. His eyes were open, but it was an empty stare.

“Sir, are you okay?” asked the doctor. John didn’t answer. “Sir?”

“I’m fine,” answered John automatically. The doctor nodded, though he didn’t believe a word. He called a nurse in and whispered a few words to her. She nodded and left. Half an hour later, Mrs. Hudson returned, looking worried.

“John,” she said upon seeing him unmoved since she and the others had left earlier. “I’ve come to take you home,” she said. John looked up at her but didn’t say anything. “Get up,” she said, holding out a hand for support. He didn’t take it, and got up on his own. She peeled the blanket off of him and put it on the chair. With a hand on his back, she guided him out of the hospital and into her car. “Now, are we going to Baker Street or your place?” John didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure. His house would remind him of Mary, and Baker Street… Sherlock was everywhere. He’d never escape him if he went there.

“My place,” he said. His voice was croaky from barely saying anything the past few days. Mrs. Hudson nodded and continued driving. When they arrived, John sat in the passenger’s seat for a while longer. He couldn’t bring himself to go in there. It would be too painful.

“John,” said Mrs. Hudson. “I’ll be right there with you. You have nothing to fear,” she said gently. John didn’t answer, but stared straight ahead. At last, he opened the door and got out of the car. Mrs. Hudson did the same. He walked around to her side of the car and stopped. She put a hand on his shoulder as he led the way into the house.

When he opened the door, John immediately regretted coming here. Along the hallway, pictures lined the walls. Pictures of him and Mary. Some had Sherlock in them, too. The coffee table was buried beneath books on pregnancy and parenting. He went instead to the kitchen, which had no photos of Mary or Sherlock, and no books on his obliterated happy future. He sat down at the table, unwilling to go upstairs. Mrs. Hudson sat across from him. Mary’s seat.

“John, you need to take care of yourself,” she said. “Have a shower, or a bath, and put on some fresh clothes. Eat something.”

“What’s the point?” he said.

“I know things seem bleak right now, John, I really do, but you still have friends who care about you. And if Sherlock were to wake up right now, he’d expect you to be ready for whatever case he goes on next. Please, John, if not for us, then do it for Sherlock.” John sighed.

“Fine,” he said, getting up from the table. He went upstairs to clean himself up.

“I’ll make you some breakfast,” offered Mrs. Hudson, giving a small smile of relief.

Upstairs. John willed his feet to lift and move up the stairs. They felt heavy and all he wanted to do was lie down and never wake up. Sherlock did it. The upstairs hallway was also filled with pictures of him and Mary. And Sherlock. He paused and looked at a wedding photo. It was him in the middle, with Mary and Sherlock on either side. Mary was almost out of the photo, so it was really just him and Sherlock. He turned away and kept walking. Past the freshly-painted nursery. The crib for the baby was still in the box, unopened. Newspaper and plastic littered the floor from when he and Mary had painted it. He walked into his room, the room he’d shared with Mary. Not wanting to linger, he quickly picked out his clothes and went into the bathroom.

He stayed in the shower as long as possible. The mirrors fogged up and the steam was so thick it was suffocating, but John didn’t care. The hot water pelted his skin, burning and providing relief at the same time. The scalding water distracted him from everything going on outside the bathroom door. Finally, he decided it was time to go downstairs. He turned the water off, grabbed his towel, and stepped out of the shower. The relatively cold air hit him hard, and with it came all the thoughts that he’d tried so hard to forget. He sank to his knees, then curled into a fetal position on the cold tile. He shook as tears made their way down his cheeks, rolling off onto the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to take deep breaths, doing everything in his power to block out the world.

After some time, John wasn’t sure how long, he recovered and sat up. He slowly got to his feet, taking deep, calming breaths. He gripped the countertop tightly and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked better than he had before he’d showered. He still looked tired, though. He got dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hudson had made his favorite breakfast. Beans, toast, sausage, mushrooms. John hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he saw the enticing plate. He gave Mrs. Hudson a small smile of thanks and began eating.

Inspired by a full belly and a shower, John felt hopeful. He felt happy. He was angry at Mary and worried about Sherlock, but today was a pretty good day so far. The pictures of Mary only made John upset, so he took them down and put them in a box in the closet. He closed the door to the nursery and put the baby books in a box, too. He moved several items of clothing down to the guest room so he wouldn’t have to sleep in his room with Mary. John felt a little better after removing the constant reminders of Mary from the house. He didn’t feel like looking at them at the moment. The place felt a little friendlier. John went back to the hospital in the afternoon to visit Sherlock, but that night he slept at home. He had no nightmares that night.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The good day turned out to be an isolated incident, a rare glimpse of hope. The rest of the week, John’s nightmares returned full-force. He’d wake up screaming because Sherlock had died again, and again. Then he’d sink back into the bed, sobbing quietly alone. He’d peel off the blankets and stumble downstairs because there was no use trying to go back to sleep. The struggle of the day would begin, and John would go to work, all the patients he’d see reminding him of Sherlock. Then he’d come home, exhausted. He’d open the bottle of whiskey and a frozen meal and sit down. When he’d finish eating, he’d continue to drink until late in the night. Then he’d stumble back upstairs and fall asleep, often still in his clothes. Then the nightmares would wake him up, and the cycle begin anew.

When he got off work early, and during his lunch breaks, he’d visit Sherlock. Not much changed, and the detective was still sleeping peacefully. He’d undergone surgery for the gunshot wound, and it was healing as expected. This didn’t wake Sherlock, though.

Occasionally Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would visit him. He never made much of an effort to engage with them or return their efforts, as he was always focused on the friend who wasn’t there. They came anyway, and though John was being a bit of a jerk to everyone, he was in pain, and leaving him alone could only make it worse.

One day, John went to visit Baker Street. He hadn’t been there since the day he and Sherlock had broken into Magnussen’s office. He’d been putting off visiting it, since it hurt too much to think about, let alone look at. Mrs. Hudson waved him up with a sympathetic look and followed close behind. John walked up the stairs where he’d passed out with Sherlock on his stag night, and where, even longer ago, he and Sherlock had giggled deliriously at chasing a cab halfway across London. John sighed and continued up.

The sitting room was left just as it had been last week, and yet it was entirely different. Instead of looking like a place full of love and happiness and good memories, it was shadowed by the absence of its tenant. Instead of beautiful compositions littering the music stand and the surrounding floor, John saw unfinished melodies. Instead of experiments reeking and burning and doing other mildly dangerous things, the kitchen table and the instruments on top were abandoned. It looked as though Sherlock would waltz in any second and tell John about what he’d been away investigating. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It still smelled like Sherlock, too.

All of a sudden, John’s shoulders sagged and his eyes grew heavy. He felt tired, and overwhelmed. He sank to the ground and hugged his knees to his chest, burying his face. He couldn’t do it. It was too much. Sherlock wouldn’t be back soon. The music was lying, the experiments were lying. He dug his fingers into his scalp, trying to distract himself from everything around him. He felt Mrs. Hudson hand squeezing his shoulder gently, calling him back. He lifted his head up slowly, turning his head to look at Mrs. Hudson. She switched from a shoulder rub to a hug. Then she pulled back to let him stand up again. He got to his feet, a little shaky.

“Thanks, Mrs. H,” he said. “I think I’m going to head home now.” Without waiting for a goodbye or even a look of acknowledgement, he hurried down the stairs and out the door, not bothering to call a taxi. He’d walk.


	3. Ghosts

It was a warm, sunny August day, not at all reflective of John’s mood. He sighed as he looked into the mirror. He looked like hell. You can’t go to your own birthday party looking like you’ve just fought death itself, but here John was. He ran his fingers through his hair and blinked a few times. He didn’t feel like celebrating anything, not when his wife was a convicted murderer and Sherlock was out of commission indefinitely. But he had promised his friends he’d go.

The party was going to be held at Lestrade’s flat, so John hailed a taxi. It wasn’t going to be a particularly large party, just Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Harry, Mike Stamford, and of course, Lestrade. John wasn’t looking forward to seeing Harry. He just wasn’t ready to deal with that right now. But if it would make his friends happy, he might as well. All too soon, the taxi pulled up outside Lestrade’s building. John paid the cabbie and walked slowly to the door. He took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer.

“Who is it?” asked a fuzzy, crackly version of Lestrade’s voice.

“It’s John.”

“Oh, hey, John! So glad you came. Come right up.” John nodded and, following the click, pushed the door open. He took the lift up and knocked on the door to Greg’s flat. A few seconds later it opened to reveal a beaming Lestrade.

“Hi, Greg,” said John, forcing a smile.

“Hey, John! Great weather, isn’t it?” said Lestrade. “Come on in, everybody’s here except Harry, don’t know where she is.”

“Probably at a bar somewhere. I’ll bet she forgot,” said John. Greg led him into the sitting room, where Molly, Mike, and Mrs. Hudson were seated around the coffee table, playing cards.

“Hello, John!” greeted Mrs. Hudson. The others said hello, too. John nodded in response and stood there awkwardly for a bit, not sure what to do.

“Do you want us to deal you in, guys?” asked Mike. Lestrade smiled and looked at John, silently asking if he wanted to. John shrugged and nodded, and followed Greg over to the table.

“Hey, before we start, John, do you want something to drink?” asked Lestrade.

“Sure,” said John. “Thanks.” Lestrade got up to go to the kitchen and was soon back with two bottles of beer in his hands. John gratefully accepted one and took a sip.

An hour later, John was on his fourth bottle and was doing very poorly in the game. He kept getting distracted and forgetting what cards he had. Then he’d show his hand to his neighbors. It would have been rather funny if the other guests didn’t know what was really happening. When John asked for a fifth bottle, Lestrade called him a cab home. John stumbled into the cab and drunkenly waved goodbye to his friends. They gave each other nervous looks. John had a terrible hangover later.

A few days after the disastrous party, John was scheduled to visit Mary in prison. He hadn’t been looking forward to this. He really didn’t want to see her lying, treacherous, murderous face. But Mycroft said he had to visit, so. Here he was in Mycroft’s sleek black car, on his way to a secure, secret prison run by Mycroft’s people. He didn’t bother asking where it was, or how much longer the ride would be. He wouldn’t get a straight answer.

They pulled up outside a building that was very clearly not a prison. Then John felt a needle being jabbed into his arm and a blindfold being put over his face. He didn’t remember anything else until he was already inside wherever the prison was. Mycroft was standing in front of him, a glass of water at the ready to offer to the confused doctor.

“Hello, Dr. Watson,” greeted Mycroft. “How are you doing?” He handed the glass to John, who took a sip.

“Unwillingly drugged and not looking forward to seeing Mary. How do you think I’m doing?” John answered, very much annoyed with Mycroft.

“I think it’s a good idea for you to talk to her,” Mycroft said, maintaining civility despite John’s sarcasm. “When you’re ready,” he said after a moment, gesturing down the hall. John took a deep breath and followed his directions. At last he came upon the room. It was guarded by two burly soldiers, a man and a woman. At a look from Mycroft, they parted and one opened the door for John. He found himself in a room with a couch, table, and chairs. There was a carpet on the ground and some generic peaceful paintings on the wall. A few books to read, as well as some paper and pens, and some exercise equipment. It seemed a decent place. On the couch, flipping through a baby magazine, was Mary. She looked up as he walked in, and had an innocent smile, as if she hadn’t shot Sherlock.

“Hello, John,” she said. John didn’t say anything, but instead stared at her. A few minutes passed in silence. “So, are you going to talk to me?” she pressed. John shook his head in disbelief.

“Wh- how? How are you acting so normal about this?” he spat. “You shot two people.” She blinked.

“I’ve shot a lot more than that, sweetheart,” she said.

“Don’t call me that. No. Not anymore.”

“I did what I had to.”

“You didn’t have to shoot Sherlock.”

“I needed to shoot him most of all.” John clenched his fists and took a deep breath. All he wanted was for Mary to be dead. She had lied, killed, betrayed, hurt, and manipulated, and she deserved to die. But John couldn’t kill her. It wouldn’t solve anything. It wouldn’t wake Sherlock up.

“Why?” John already knew why, but he needed to hear it from her.

“He killed my boss. He cost me my job and my friend.”

“Sherlock didn’t kill Moriarty. He shot himself.”

“Because of Sherlock,” she retorted.

“He didn’t deserve that.”

“I think he did.” John shook his head. That’s when he noticed Mary’s bump. She was only three months along, so it was just slightly visible. John was reminded of the baby and how this wasn’t the end. He couldn’t just stop talking to Mary. She seemed to notice his change in demeanor and guessed the cause. “What do you think?” she asked.

“What do I think? What do I… I think I’m pretty angry. And that’s an understatement. I never want to talk to you again. I want you gone from my life. But that can’t happen, can it? Not when you’re carrying our child.”

“Once they’re six weeks old, you take them and I stay in prison. You have the option to never talk to me again.”

“But I don’t, do I? Because you’re their mum. And they’re going to want to meet you sooner or later. And you’re going to want to see them. And I’m sure you won’t be in prison forever.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Mary agreed. John didn’t feel like staying any longer, and left without another word to her or Mycroft, who was waiting outside.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rest of August, as well as September and October, passed much as the beginning of August had. John sometimes didn’t show up at the clinic, and sometimes he had a bit too much to drink. Sometimes was beginning to happen more frequently. Sherlock was, of course, still asleep. The doctors were beginning to hint that the hospital wouldn’t let him stay much longer. He’d been there going on three months, and had shown no notable signs of recovery. Sometimes his hand would twitch, or he’d make a face, but still he couldn’t be woken. John often wondered what Sherlock was dreaming about. Was he happy asleep? Or was he being tortured? What made him smile? Why was his brow furrowed? Sometimes he’d wonder if Sherlock was dreaming about him. Then he’d bury the thought and make a quick exit.

At home, John occupied himself with a bottle of liquor and the telly. Nothing good was ever on, but enough drink can help you cope with anything. Sometimes his eyes strayed towards the locked drawer where he kept his revolver. Then he’d shake his head and look back to the telly or turn in for the night. But sleep would either evade him or torture him, so John was always tired in the mornings and rarely showed up to work on time - if he showed up at all.

Lestrade had invited him to his Halloween party. Despite Sherlock, Lestrade was determined to try and keep everyone’s spirits up, especially John’s. Everyone was expected to wear a costume. John didn’t really want to, but he didn’t want to disappoint Lestrade. He rummaged around in his closet for something he could pass off as a costume, but he didn’t find anything he really wanted to wear. After a while, he finally settled on what to do. He put on a collared shirt and nice slacks, and a tie. He grabbed a nametag and wrote Tim on it and stuck it to his shirt. All that remained was to put on his coat and get a cab to Lestrade’s place.

John was the last one to arrive at Lestrade’s flat. Everyone else was already there, chatting and laughing and drinking and complimenting each other’s costumes. Molly was a cat (like always). Lestrade was dressed as a circus clown. He had a rainbow wig and a big red nose, had even painted his face, and was wearing a baggy suit and big shoes. Donovan was a zombie. Anderson was a scientifically inaccurate green dinosaur. Sherlock would enjoy making fun of it, John thought sadly. There were a few other people from the Yard there, but John didn’t know their names.

“John! You made it! Great to see you.” Lestrade came over, grinning beneath his face paint.

“Hi, Greg,” John said. He cleared his throat. “Nice party.” 

“Thanks! What are you dressed as?” John pointed to his name tag.

“Well, hi, Tim. Oh. Wait! Tim Canterbury?” John nodded and forced a small smile. “That’s brilliant. You look quite like him, by the way. It’s a bit eerie.”

“Perfect for Halloween, then,” said John. Lestrade nodded, still smiling.

“Well, enjoy the party,” he said, gesturing to the scene behind him. John gave a slight nod and headed over to the bar. It was self-serve, so he poured himself some whiskey and went to stand in the corner, quietly watching the guests. He couldn’t help but deduce them, the way Sherlock had shown him. He could see who was having an affair, who had been on a date recently.

“Anderson and Donovan are still seeing each other. Don’t know what she sees in him, though. That dinosaur costume really is ridiculous.” John turned his head to see Sherlock standing next to him.

“You’re not real,” he said.

“No,” Sherlock agreed.

“Why are you here?”

“You’re lonely. You need someone to talk to.”

“You’re not awake. I can’t talk to you. I’m talking to myself.” John turned away from Sherlock, eyes on the guests again. When he turned back to him again, Sherlock was gone. He put his head in one hand, the other still gripping his drink, and sighed. He couldn’t do this. Time to go home. He set his drink down on a nearby table and walked to the door, fast but not fast enough to attract suspicion. He left without saying goodbye to anyone, not even Lestrade. He didn’t bother calling a cab home. He didn’t look back once at the party. Unbeknownst to John, one cat was saying her goodbyes and hurrying quietly out the door behind him.

It was a long walk from Lestrade’s flat back to John’s house. He kept his head down, not looking up at anyone who passed him by. He turned his coat collar up against the cold, but that reminded him of Sherlock, so he put it back down again. When he was nearly home, he noticed someone in front of him wearing a dark coat and nice shoes. He looked up to see a head covered in curly brown locks.

“Sherlock, you’re not real. You’re not real.” John increased his pace and, once he had passed him, turned around to face Sherlock. He gripped his shoulders and shook the man. “You’re not real!”

“Get off me,” said a woman’s voice. John blinked and saw that it was not, in fact, Sherlock.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry. Jesus. I- I am so sorry.” He staggered back, running his hands through his hair. He turned back around and ran the rest of the way home, tears pooling in his eyes. He threw the door open and slammed it behind him, not stopping until he had reached the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and made for the couch. He didn’t bother taking his nametag off, and instead took a big swig of his drink. He hadn’t been there more than a few minutes when there was a knock on the door. “Go away. Not home.” He took another swig. The knock came again. “I told you to go away. M’not interested.” He raised the bottle to his lips again when there was yet another knock. He slammed the bottle down on the table, stood up, stomped over to the door, and opened it. Molly. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Hi, John. Um, I saw you leave the party early, and you didn’t look too good, so I thought it would be good if you had a friend. With you.” She sighed nervously. “Can I come in?”

“Sure. But, er, now’s not really a good time. I’m not really in the mood for company.”

“That’s why I’m here.” She took off her coat and costume and hung them up. John didn’t say anything. “Where’s your liquor?” she asked.

“In there,” John said hesitantly, gesturing to the kitchen. She followed his direction and he heard her going through the cupboards and fridge. Then he heard a splashing sound, followed by a clink. The splashing and clinking repeated several times. He went into the kitchen to see the last of his drink being poured down the drain, and the bottle placed in the recycling. “What are you doing?” he asked angrily.

“You’ve had enough,” Molly replied.

“You’ve no right to do that,” John hissed.

“I’m your concerned friend who doesn’t want you to waste yourself. I have every right,” she hissed back. “Now sit down.” John sat at the kitchen table.

“What do you want from me?” he asked miserably. “Because I can’t do it. I can barely do anything these days. Just - just let me be.”

“Right. Here’s what’s going to happen,” said Molly, getting two mugs from the cupboard. “We’re going to have some coffee, and you’re going to talk to me.”

“About what?”

“About you. About your feelings and your life and your future.” John didn’t answer, but instead stared at a crumb on the table. A few minutes later, Molly sat down across from him and slid a hot, steaming mug towards him. He accepted it but didn’t take a sip. “Have some,” Molly said. “It’ll make you feel better.” John took a small sip. “So how are you? I mean really. Don’t brush it off. Tell me what’s going on.”

“How am I?” he laughed bitterly. “My wife is a murderous assassin who worked for Moriarty and shot my - and shot Sherlock. Sherlock’s in a coma and isn’t waking up. My wife is, by the way, also pregnant. With my child. I barely sleep. And when I do, I have… awful dreams. Truly awful. And I wake up, and I go to work, and I have to be fine because my job is the only thing worth doing at this point. But it’s so hard, Molly, it’s so damn hard to wake up every day and go to work when everything else in my life is ruined. I have nothing. Nothing.” His hands shook as he raised the mug to his lips, and his eyes were filled with tears again.

“You don’t have nothing, John. You have friends who care about you. And even if it’s hard to see that right now, it doesn’t mean we’re not here. And we’ll do everything we can to help you. But you have to let us help you. You’re not alone.” She smiled tentatively at him. John didn’t respond, but took another small sip of his coffee. “Can I ask you something?”

“Fire away,” John said, taking another sip, larger this time.

“When you mentioned Sherlock. You hesitated. You were going to say something else.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You said ‘and shot my - and shot Sherlock.’ How was the first one going to end?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“John.” She gave him a look that he didn’t quite understand. “How many things went unsaid, between you two?”

“What are you getting at?”

“He liked you, John. I could see it. The way he’d straighten up, and his eyes would just light up when you walked in the room. The way they’d light up when your name was even mentioned. I knew him, before he met you. He’s - he’s more animated, now. And kinder. Did you know he once spent a full hour talking about you? He was waiting for me to do an autopsy on a victim for a case, because I had another body to examine first. It took three tries to tell him I was ready to autopsy the victim; he was so distracted.” John could see she was a little sad. He knew she loved Sherlock, and it must be hard to talk about this.

“Really?”

“Really. He never acted like that about anyone else, or if he did, it was long before I met him. Long before even Greg met him, and that was nearly ten years ago.” John didn’t answer. They sat in silence for a few minutes, drinking their coffee.

“I don’t like him, though,” John said finally. “Not that way. I’m not gay.”

“There isn’t just gay and straight, John,” said Molly. “And anyway, that doesn’t really matter. You do like him. You do the same things Sherlock does. You both become so much more alive when the other one’s around. You’d do anything for each other. And I’ve seen you check him out more than once.” She smiled good-naturedly, prompting John to chuckle.

“Not much I can do about it now, though, is there?” he asked, sobering up. He swirled his coffee around. “Even if - even if I do like him. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about anything like that. It’s been years.” He took a sip of his coffee. “We used to be close. And I used to think that perhaps I might like him. But after… after he jumped, that day at Bart’s, things have been different. And I don’t know if they’ll ever be the same.”

“You need to talk to him, John,” said Molly.

“How? He’s not awake.”

“You said that talking to him could help wake him up. So talk to him while he’s asleep. And if you say something you regret, well, he’s sleeping. It’s like a practice run. A practice run you can do over and over, until you get it right. And you’ll be helping him.”

“But Molly, I don’t… I can’t. I can’t see him that way.”

“Think it over,” she said, getting up. She put her mug in the sink and filled it with some water to soak. “I’d best be off. Good night, John. I’ll see you soon.” She grabbed her coat and, with one last smile towards John, left him at the table with his coffee, still trying to process what had just happened.


	4. Not His Date?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Abuse/violence, homophobia, and a homophobic slur.

If John’s mind had been preoccupied before, it never had a moment of peace now. Molly’s words kept poking and prodding while he was trying to treat a patient, and they consumed him while he was at home watching the telly. Feelings for Sherlock. John hadn’t thought about that in years. He never thought he had much of a chance, and anyway, he wasn’t gay. But Molly was right. There weren’t just gay and straight people. He could be bisexual. He'd considered that before, when he was younger - only a teenager. He’d told his dad this, and his dad had yelled at him, saying bisexuality wasn’t real, that it was just a phase, and that he was either fully gay or just experimenting. Then he’d said that if he was really gay, he’d be thrown out of the house. John hadn’t had any money, and he had been too young to join the army yet, so he’d buried the thought and pretended the whole ordeal had never happened. As soon as he was of age, he’d enlisted and left, but he never pursued the possibility he might be bi again. There were a few moments, with some of his fellow soldiers, where the thought presented itself again, but then his dad’s words would come back, and he’d shake his head and ignore it.

Then he’d been invalided, and he’d met Sherlock. Sherlock, who’d deduced him so quickly and so brilliantly. Who’d immediately offered him a place to stay, and didn’t even make him pay rent for the first few months, because John hadn’t found a job yet and money was tight. Sherlock, who’d rescued him countless times. Sherlock, who was willing to die for him. John was willing to die for him, too. He hadn’t realized that until that day at the pool, with all those snipers pointing at Sherlock and him, covered in semtex and being threatened by the consulting criminal. Things were different after that day. John began to listen to the thoughts in his head - all the thoughts about Sherlock, and how maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to fall for Sherlock. Molly was right. He had checked him out on more than one occasion. And he did become more alive around Sherlock. Before, he had been depressed, suicidal. He’d had no will to live. But then he’d met Sherlock, and suddenly life was worth living. Sherlock showed him so much, and had taught him so much about life.

Everything changed with the fall. Before Sherlock had jumped, they were best friends. Maybe more. John didn’t know. They had never talked about it. But after Sherlock had jumped, and left him to grieve for two years, John had met Mary. And he fell in love with her. And slowly, he had come to terms with Sherlock’s death. And he didn’t need to worry about what their relationship was, or how he felt, because that was in the past and it was over. He still had the occasional thought about what could have been, and he’d woken up in the middle of the night more than a few times, shivering and sweating and panicked. But at least that door was closed off. Behind that door were all the things John didn’t want to - couldn’t talk about.

But Sherlock wasn’t dead. He had returned, in the middle of John’s proposal to Mary. And suddenly, John didn’t know if he should be proposing to Mary. He doubted himself. He never would have proposed to anyone when Sherlock was alive - he never even had long-term girlfriends after they met. Sherlock had died, though, and John had fallen in love. Proposing to Mary seemed like a good idea. Safe. Normal. However, Sherlock was, apparently, still alive, and suddenly John wasn’t sure whether to propose or not. Sherlock was just his friend, though, and you don’t decide not to propose because of a friend who never opposed the idea of your wedding. So John proposed to Mary later, and they got married, with Sherlock as his best man. Sherlock had taken the responsibility very seriously.  
But now… Mary was a murderous assassin who had threatened to kill him, had shot Sherlock, and had killed who knows how many other people. And Sherlock was sleeping. It was nearly four months since John had last heard Sherlock’s voice - well, the one that wasn’t in his head. John missed Sherlock more now than when he had been “dead” for two years. At least then, he had been fairly certain it was over. Now, he was in a perpetual state of not knowing whether Sherlock would live or die, or if he would sleep forever and never wake up. Molly had said it would be a good idea to talk to Sherlock, even though he was sleeping. Maybe she was right about that, too. But what would he say? He tried to think of what words could possibly convey what he felt, what he wanted, what he couldn’t bear to think about for so long. John didn’t get any sleep that night.

John began to only show up at the clinic on Tuesdays and Thursdays. They were the only days he could bear to be at work, and even then, he was grumpy and often lost his temper with patients and coworkers, so the hospital didn’t much mind him being out. John’s friends grew increasingly concerned for him, and checked up on him whenever they could. In late November, they took his revolver. Lestrade had gone over to pay him a visit and had found John sitting at the table, head in his hands. His sleeve was rolled up and there was a bloodied knife on the table next to him. Lestrade had confiscated the knife and revolver, as he knew it would only be a matter of time before John tried to use it. From then on, John’s friends decided he couldn’t be left alone. Mrs. Hudson visited during the mornings, Molly during the afternoons, and Lestrade in the evenings. Mike came when he could. John knew what they were doing, and he didn’t want them to. He just wanted to be left in peace. He yelled at them sometimes. He said horrible things to them, horrible things that he didn’t mean but that still hurt anyway. His friends stayed despite the abuse, because as long as John was alive, there was some hope, however small, for recovery.

John’s dreams, however, were getting worse. Not only did he regularly witness the tragic July shooting, but he was also forced to relive his worst teenage memories. The one that he experienced most often was his worst memory. His dad came home from work, smelling like whiskey and gin because he’d stopped off at the pub for a couple of hours first. Then his dad yelled at Harry for having a girl in her room and setting a bad example for her younger brother. Then it was John’s turn.

“Care to tell me why I found these under your mattress?” Dad handed him the sports and military magazines John had worked so hard to hide.

“I was thinking of joining the military when I’m older, sir?”

“I know that. Why are they under your mattress?” What was John supposed to say to that? That he liked them as much as he liked the women in swimsuits? That would never fly.

“Why were you going through my stuff?” Dad narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t talk back to me,” he growled. “Now answer me.” John took a deep breath and looked his father coldly in the eye.

“I read them for the articles.”

“For the articles.”

“Yes, sir.” His dad slapped him across the face. His cheek burned.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Fine. I enjoy looking at the pictures. Is that better?”

“What did you just say?”

“I enjoy looking at them. The pictures. Especially the boxing ones.” John smirked despite his situation. Slap.

“I didn’t raise my son to be a jocker.”

“I like the women, too, if that helps.” Slap.

“Get out of my sight.” John turned to leave. “Wait a second.” Dad took the magazines back out of his hands and ripped them up before John trudged miserably up to his room. He lay on his bed, face throbbing angrily, before he finally woke up, nearly twenty years later. Time, however, couldn’t diminish the pain in his chest and throat, or erase the memories of holding ice to his cheek to stop the swelling because he couldn’t go to school looking like that. So for nearly twenty years, John Watson was not attracted to men. If he found his head turning that way, he turned it right back. If he licked his lips while having a drink with someone, he stopped. If he found himself thinking of a man, he went on another date with a woman instead. John was a lady’s man. Nothing else.  
During the last week of November, Sherlock’s hospital said they couldn’t keep treating him. He’d been there for four months, and had made no major improvement. There were the occasional hand twitches, and sometimes Sherlock would smile or frown or furrow his brows, but he wasn’t waking up. It wasn’t feasible for the hospital to keep treating him. His body had mostly healed from the gunshot wound, so there wasn’t really any point in keeping him any longer. He’d have to be taken home.

And so it came to be that Sherlock returned to Baker Street. His bedroom was turned into a hospital ward, and drips and tubes snaked from his arms and mouth to machines and monitors. John and Molly were employed to feed him and take care of him. Mrs. Hudson was taught how to give him food in case John and Molly were unavailable, and so Sherlock received high-quality care despite being kicked out of the hospital. John often stayed overtime when he could, because what else was he going to do? Go home and watch the telly? Have a drink? Even though it hurt unbearably to see Sherlock lying there, sleeping, it was better to be with him than to go away.

In early December, the first week or so, John was scheduled to work a late-night shift with Sherlock. He took a cab there, and stopped by to visit Mrs. Hudson first. She had made dinner for the two of them, since John hadn’t bothered to eat before coming over. He said hello and hung his coat up in the hall before going into the kitchen and sitting down to eat with her.

“Oh, John, I’m so glad you’re doing this,” Mrs. Hudson smiled.

“Of course. Sherlock’s my best friend.” More than his best friend, John thought.

“No, I know that. It’s just so good to see you working and, well, not happy, but… you’re not wasting away in front of the telly so much anymore, is what I mean.” John chuckled.

“I get it. It feels a bit better, helping Sherlock. At least I know I’m doing everything I can. Not like before.” Mrs. Hudson smiled, relieved to find John in such an amiable spirit. For the rest of dinner, they talked about Mrs. Hudson’s latest adventures - well, the ones she was willing to tell John - and about current events. Current events mainly consisted of wondering what Sherlock would think of the news, which made them sad, so they changed the subject to John’s work at the clinic. Eventually, dinner was over, the table had been cleared, and the dishes had been cleaned. It was time for John to go check on Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed. The flat was quiet save for the beeping of the machines and Sherlock’s steady breathing. The city lights glowed gently behind the curtains, and the hall light streamed in through the open door, giving the room a warm, golden light. Cars rolled by sometimes, but that was just the regular noise of London. There was no violin winding through the flat. No easy banter in front of the fire. No excited yelling as Sherlock solved the case. There were no doorbell rings from prospective clients. No horrified gasps from John or Mrs. Hudson when they opened the fridge. The man who made all that happen; the man who gave life to Baker Street, was asleep in his bed. John finished taking his notes for Molly and set them down on the side table. He pulled a chair up to Sherlock’s bedside and sat down, staring sadly at the patient. He knew it was time to tell Sherlock. He hadn’t planned to, or at least, not this evening. There was something about the way Sherlock was illuminated by the light, the way he looked so peaceful and gentle. Or maybe it was just due to being tired after a long day. Either way, John felt he had to say something.

“Sherlock,” he said, looking down at his clasped hands. This was silly. He shouldn’t have listened to Molly. “I, um. I needed to tell you something.” Sherlock’s hand twitched, though John chalked that up to a mere coincidence. This was a horrible idea. “When we met, I was a broken man. I had nobody. I was traumatized, and I… well, I don’t think I could’ve gone on much longer.” He paused. “You took me and showed me that my life didn’t end after I was shot. You showed me how… how amazing life can really be. You saved me.” He took a deep breath. “And, er, that’s not all. I also think that you’re the most brilliant, incredible, kindest man I’ve ever met. You may be an insufferable twat sometimes, and frankly you were a bit of a nightmare to live with, but… you’re also selfless. And funny. And wise. And brave. I’m proud to say you’re the most extraordinary person I know. I’ve been ignoring it for so long; dismissing what was right in front of me, and now you might be gone, and… Sherlock, I - I think I love you. And I know you said you don’t - that you don’t feel things that way, but I just needed to tell you. I love you so much. More than you know. More than even I know, I believe.” Sherlock’s hand twitched again, and John, without thinking, reached out to take it. John sat there for a while, holding Sherlock’s large hand in both of his own. “Please wake up, Sherlock. I need you, if only to make some remark about how I was seeing but not observing, or something like that.” He smiled weakly and felt his throat tighten. At last, he let go of Sherlock’s hand and stood up. He went to leave, but hovered in the doorway. “Goodnight, Sherlock.” He turned off the hallway lights and called a cab to pick him up. Upstairs, while John was giving the driver the directions back to his house, Sherlock’s mouth bent into his small, bow-shaped grin.


	5. Broken

Mrs. Hudson looked over sadly at the tea-tray as she left her flat to go check on Sherlock. John and Molly were both working shifts, so now the task fell to her. She hadn’t brought the tea-tray up to 221b in nearly five months. She climbed the stairs, and, despite knowing better, half-expected to open the door to find Sherlock smoking in his chair, or in the kitchen experimenting on decaying organs. She sighed and made her way down the hall, coming at last to Sherlock’s room. She followed the protocol Molly and John had taught her. She checked Sherlock’s vitals, then the drip, then prepared his food. She noted everything on the clipboard for future reference, and then pulled up a chair by the bed to talk to him. She talked to him every day - she hadn’t missed one yet. She talked about all sorts of things - Mr. Chatterjee downstairs, Mrs. Turner next door, John, the crimes she saw in the news, whatever came to mind. Things that might strike Sherlock as interesting, or that he would’ve gotten annoyed over. Anything that would’ve gotten a reaction out of him.

“Sherlock, I saw something you might like earlier. The police caught a serial killer, and he confessed, and there was irrefutable evidence and everything, and he was in custody, but - and here’s the bit you’ll enjoy - he committed another murder while in custody! Same prints, CCTV footage, and another confession! The time of the murder was confirmed to be while he was locked up. I’ll bet you can’t solve that one!” She smiled at him, hoping beyond belief that he would wake up. His hand twitched, his head shook slightly, as if he were confused, but he didn’t wake up. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t having it. “A murder while in custody, Sherlock,” she said, far too loudly and a bit cross. Sherlock’s mouth opened as if to speak, but he couldn’t. His hand twitched again, and at last he gasped, in a hoarse voice.

“John?” His eyes opened slowly, as if he’d drop back to sleep any minute.

“Mrs. Hudson, dear,” said his landlady before bursting into tears. Sherlock’s eyes wandered the room, confused. Where was John?

“Mrs. Hudson?” She looked up at him, beaming. “I need a doctor.” Mrs. Hudson let out a happy cry before composing herself enough to use the phone.

“John. John! It’s me, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock - he’s woken up! About bloody time, too. Get here as fast as you can!” Then she got on the phone with the hospital.

“No hospital,” said Sherlock. His voice was still rather croaky.

“Dear, you have to go.”

“How… how long was I out?”

“Nearly five months.” Five months. The world had been going round for five months without him.

“John? Where’s… how’s John?” Mrs. Hudson gave up trying to call the hospital and instead decided to fill Sherlock in.

“That was his voicemail. He’s at work right now. I’m sure he’ll be along soon.” Sherlock nodded.

“What about… while I was asleep? And what even happened?” His brain was still running a bit behind, far too slow for his liking.

“John’s had - well, he’s had a bit of a rough go of it. He’s been getting a bit better, I think, and now that you’re awake, I think he’ll be okay.”

“What about Mary?”

“Mary?”

“Yes, she shot me,” Sherlock said. His hazy memory was starting to clear. “What happened to her?”

“She was arrested, of course. Horrible thing to do, shooting Sherlock Holmes.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “John was distraught. Of course he was. Mary shot you, and she’s pregnant, and you wouldn’t wake up… well, I’m sure John will tell you. It’s his life.” Sherlock nodded weakly. Just moving his head up and down was a bit of a drain. His body had been mostly still for five months, he supposed. It would take him a while to regain his strength enough to run around London with the Yard. In the meantime, however, he was sure to be incredibly bored. Just then, he realized how thirsty he was.

“Can I have some water?” he asked. He forgot to say ‘please’. John would’ve nudged him until he’d gotten the hint. Oh, well. Mrs. Hudson nodded and hurried off to get a glass of ice water while Sherlock thought about everything. Criminals had been getting away for five months. Lestrade had been on his own for five months. John had… well, like Mrs. Hudson had said. Sherlock knew John wouldn’t take it well. While he was asleep, he had seen what would happen. Or, one of the possibilities. He’d seen lots of things while he was sleeping. He couldn’t tell if he’d been dreaming, or if he’d been in his mind palace, or perhaps both. Soon, Mrs. Hudson returned with the water, and he felt a bit better as the cold washed down his throat, making him more alert and refreshed. It would be a long road to recovery, but right now wasn’t so bad. He just wished John were here to greet him.

John was not at the clinic. He’d been there earlier, but it hadn’t been a good day. In fact, it had been a terrible day. He’d gotten there late, and had yelled at people again. Then everyone had had enough, and he’d been fired. He’d gone home, sat himself in front of the telly, and opened a bottle of whiskey. All afternoon, he rarely stirred, except to open another bottle. He didn’t have lunch or dinner. At some point, maybe around the third bottle, Mrs. Hudson rang. He didn’t pick up.

Finally, he decided he needed some fresh air. It was nearing ten at night, and it was dark out save for the street lights. He didn’t bother putting on a coat, even though it was nighttime in the middle of December, and well below freezing, but he brought a bottle with him. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he didn’t want to go back home. He stumbled down the street, and turned random corners until he didn’t even know where he was anymore. When he finished the bottle, he kept it in his hand until he passed someone’s bins - they’d been left out. He slipped the bottle in one of them; recycling or trash, he couldn’t remember.

He went to cross the street and that’s when it happened. He could’ve sworn he looked both ways, that the road was clear. But one minute, he was walking across the street; the next, he was thrown backwards. His legs were swept out from underneath him. His head hit something cold and hard, and he fell to the ground. The pavement in front of him blurred and dimmed. He could taste something metallic in his mouth. Somebody screamed, though John couldn’t hear it very well, and they ran over to him. His head throbbed, as did his legs and left arm, and then everything went dark.

John opened his eyes only to be blinded by the bright white lights above him. The lights seemed to be double, confusing him even more. He felt exhausted. His head pounded, the combination of a hangover and hitting a car making the pain nearly unbearable. He shut his eyes again, and the pounding eased a little. He felt nauseous, and his right leg and left arm were aching dully. He tried to turn over but then his limbs screamed with pain, so he stopped. Broken and sprained bones. Hangover. Concussion. He must be in the hospital. Sure enough, a doctor walked in. It looked like there were two of him.

“Hey, Dr. Watson. How are you feeling?” he asked.

“How do you think?” John groaned. “What… what happened?”

“You were drunk, and you got hit by a car,” the doctor said gravely. “Your left arm was badly sprained when you fell, and your right leg is broken from the impact with the vehicle. Your head hit the hood, and you have a concussion.”

“I figured,” said John.

Through the course of the day, John received many visits from the doctor and nurses, and took a few tests, as well. The concussion wasn’t too serious - he’d recover soon enough. The hangover faded as the day went on, and soon John wasn’t feeling too bad. His arm and leg were still in a lot of pain, of course, but it was better than in the morning. And the afternoon also brought visitors.

“John!” Mrs. Hudson cried. She hurried into the room, followed by Molly and Lestrade.

“Mrs. Hudson,” John said, straightening up in his bed. “Hey, guys.”

“You look awful,” said Greg.

“Thanks.”

“How are you doing?” asked Molly.

“Better. On the mend. Sorry about missing my shift with Sherlock, by the way.” the three visitors looked at each other as if they knew something he didn’t. “What is it?” Molly was the one who answered him.

“It’s Sherlock.” John’s heart sank. Sherlock had died, and John had been too wasted to be there, to say goodbye….

“Oh, God,” he groaned. “When… when did this happen?”

“The afternoon you got hit. I tried calling, John,” Mrs. Hudson said. The call he hadn’t picked up. Jesus.

“No, he can’t be… but he was stable, wasn’t he?” His friends looked confused before finally their eyes widened in surprise, then they burst into grins.

“No, John, he’s not dead - he woke up,” Mrs. Hudson said, beaming.

“Wait, what?” A small smile was slowly spreading across his face.

“He woke up,” she repeated. John’s smile had now taken over his whole face, crinkling his eyes.

“That’s amazing,” he said slowly. “When… when can I see him?”

“Well, he’s still in bed, of course, you know he’s going mad over it, but he has to - and he’s not strong enough to get very far without a wheelchair anyway, so it’ll probably be a few days until you guys  
can see each other, unless you get discharged today. It’ll be too exciting for him and he’ll get tired.”

“Oh,” said John. He had expected a similar answer, but it was still disappointing to hear.

For the rest of the visit, John asked about Sherlock and how he was doing and kept saying how excited he was to see him. He knew he sounded head over heels, but - well, he was. The others didn’t say anything about it, though, for which John was grateful. He didn’t want to tell everyone else just yet.

At last, it was time for everyone to leave, as John had another meeting with his doctor in a few minutes. They were all in high spirits, and John felt better than he had in months. Before the door closed behind them, however, Mrs. Hudson returned and leaned down close to him. She spoke quietly, in an excited whisper.

“Sherlock’s first word when he woke up was your name,” she said in his ear. “He kept asking where you were.” John looked at her, confused.

“Really?”

“Yes, I was there.” She smiled knowingly at him and hurried out to catch up with the others.

John’s doctor decided that he would be discharged that afternoon. Obviously, there would be follow-up appointments and such, but seeing as John was a doctor himself, didn’t require surgery for anything, and was only experiencing a minor concussion, the doctor decided there would be no harm in letting him go home, as long as he was supervised. John was given a wheelchair and a pair of crutches, though with his sprained arm, John didn’t expect to use those for at least a month. Molly came to pick him up, and after loading the chair in the back with the crutches, she drove them back to his house. She wheeled him inside and into the sitting room. The last time he’d been here, he’d gotten drunk and left, and he’d gotten hit by the car. Empty bottles still littered the floor. John couldn’t look at them without feeling sick, so he stared instead at his hands, his right hand holding the end of the cast on the left one, cradled neatly in his lap. Molly saw this, and picked up the bottles to recycle. John looked up gratefully at her and smiled.

They spent the afternoon chatting and watching telly, and in the evening Molly did a quick check on John’s mental functions. He was recovering as expected, and seemed to be in good shape, considering everything that happened. They also practiced maneuvering the chair around the sitting room. Just before dinner, Molly’s phone rang.

“Hello?” she said. “Hang on, John’s here. Should I put you on speaker?” She paused and nodded. “Okay, hang on.” There was a click, and then John could hear the voice on the other end.

“Hello?” Mrs. Hudson said.

“Hi, Mrs. H,” said John.

“Hello, John! How are you feeling?”

“Pretty okay. How’s Sherlock?”

“He’s not happy at all, John, I swear, I’m losing my mind! He keeps trying to escape and leave the flat but he’s not allowed; he keeps asking where you are and why he can’t see you, so I told him what happened to you, and now he’s dead set on visiting you! He’s pouting at me as I’m speaking.”

“Help me, John! She’s keeping me prisoner. This is extremely unfair!” Sherlock said. John could just see his sulking face, which made him miss the detective even more. But it was still amusing, and as the doctor part of him noted, it was for his own good.

“Sherlock, you can’t immediately jump back into the fast-paced consulting detective life. You need to recover,” he said. He could almost feel Sherlock’s angry glare burning holes in the back of his neck. This was not how he’d envisioned their first conversation. “How about this, then: You stay in bed today, do what we tell you to, right? And tomorrow, you can come visit me. How’s that?” Then they could have a proper reunion, not this strange phone argument. He waited as Sherlock considered the cost of the visit.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

“Thank goodness for you, John. I was at my wit’s end,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Well, we’ll leave you to rest, and someone needs to get back in bed!”

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock complained.

“You promised,” she said. “I think I should go now. By, dears.” She hung up with a click.

After they talked to Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock, they had dinner, and then Molly had to leave. Getting John up the stairs to his room was a lengthy process, but they made it up without any issues other than a few stumbles. John went to bed happy, and excited for tomorrow. Sherlock would be visiting.


	6. Author's Note

Hey, guys. Happy holidays! I've decided that I won't be continuing this fic for another six chapters as planned. I've been working on this series and story for months, and I'm having a harder and harder time writing it. I'm stressed, and that's showing in my writing. As I was working on what would've been chapter 6, I realized there was not only no way I'd finish it, but also no way it would finish well. The writing was short on detail, strained, repetitive, and lacking. Seeing as the major plot issues are resolved, I think it makes sense to mark this story as complete and go out on a high note. Feel free to write your own epilogues, if you wish, or perhaps I'll come back and write one in a while. I want to thank you guys for being such great readers! To those of you who've left kudos, an extra thanks. And to those amazing people who took the time to leave a comment, all my love. I'm sorry I didn't reply, but I was pretty stressed and couldn't think of what to say. Your comments made my day. And to PurpleHedgehog13, a gold star, an A+, and a pile of treasure. I always looked forward to seeing your reaction and you made this worth it.

I'll still be writing shorter fics and ficlets, but this longterm story is now done. I feel happy with the ending, if not with how it came to be the ending.

I love you all!

Bumblebi

**UPDATE 2/2/21:** I wrote another chapter! A proper ending, with thought and care. I'm so thankful to everyone for being great about the sudden ending, and I hope this will make it up to you - from the bottom of my heart, you guys are all awesome. Unfortunately, it's a few days late for the Johnlock anniversary, but every day is a good day to celebrate them, so why not? Anyway, without further ado, click "next chapter" for the epilogue! 


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Guess who finally wrote a proper ending. I hope you guys like it!

The next morning, John wasted no time in getting up and getting ready for his visitor. He’d been waiting for this day for five months, though he didn’t picture himself in a wheelchair for it. He tried to ignore his increased heart rate and sweaty palms, as he didn’t want this day to be ruined by his nerves. Just when he thought he couldn’t bear to wait any longer, the doorbell rang. Standing there was Sherlock, leaning on a walking stick and chaperoned by Mrs. Hudson.

“Hello, John!” she said cheerfully. “I’ve got some shopping to do. Have fun!” She waved and left them.

“Hi, John,” said Sherlock. A small smile rested on his face.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John answered, smiling back. John gestured for Sherlock to come in. With the aid of a walking stick and a wheelchair, Sherlock and John made it to the sofa. They sat there for a while, unsure of what to say after so long.

“So,” began Sherlock. “How are… things?” John looked at his hands in his lap.

“Um, they’re good. They weren’t before, but now they’re better.” He looked up at Sherlock again and grinned. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me, too.” Sherlock grinned back at him.

For the rest of the day they talked about what had happened while Sherlock was sleeping. They talked about Mary, Mycroft, Moriarty, the news, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Scotland Yard, anything that remotely interested Sherlock. By the time the sun was setting, it almost felt as if Sherlock had never left at all. They didn’t notice it was dark, however, until Sherlock got up to make some tea.

“John, when did it get so dark?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Where’s Mrs. Hudson? I thought she was picking me up.”

“She must be busy.”

“I’ll call Molly or Lestrade or someone, they can pick me up.” Sherlock reached for his phone, but John shook his head.

“Or,” interjected John. “You could… stay here for the night.” Why was he suggesting this? Having someone else pick up Sherlock was a perfectly reasonable plan.

“Stay here?” Sherlock looked confused.

“It was just an idea,” John said, looking at his hands again.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” John looked up again, and now it was his turn to be confused.

“Well, it didn’t seem like a bad idea.”

“So you want to stay?”

“Yes, I do.” They smiled at each other, though each was secretly very nervous. Although they had lived together for two years prior to Sherlock faking his death, this seemed different, and scarier. Especially since there wasn’t a spare room. Well, there was the nursery, but that wasn’t furnished. That meant the sleeping arrangement would be more complicated.

“I could sleep on the couch,” offered Sherlock.

“No, you’re still in recovery, you should have a proper bed. I can sleep on the couch.”

“John, may I point out that two of your limbs are broken and you have a minor concussion? You’re hardly fit to take the sofa, either.” They sat thinking over the only possibility left. Neither wanted to suggest it. “I guess that means…” began Sherlock.

“We’ll be sharing a bed,” finished John quietly. Sherlock nodded his head. “Okay. Well. It’ll be okay. We’re two grown, mature friends who will be sharing the same space. We can deal with this in a grown, mature fashion. Nobody needs to feel uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable. Are you uncomfortable?”

“Wh - no, I’m… not. I’m not. It’s fine.” Sherlock nodded his head despite not believing a word. They went up to the room and took turns in the bathroom. When finally they’d brushed their teeth, washed up, and changed into pyjamas, they were starting to feel the effects of the long day. They climbed into the bed and lay there awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

“So… good night, Sherlock.” John turned his head in the darkness to see Sherlock’s profile illuminated by the moonlight.

“Good night, John,” Sherlock said, smiling. He fell asleep surprisingly quickly, but John lay awake for hours. He tried not to think about Sherlock sleeping not a foot away from him, but that just made him think of it more. At last, he was able to drift off to sleep to the steady rhythm of Sherlock’s breathing.

He woke up at some point in the middle of the night because he’d had another nightmare. Mary had shot Sherlock again. He looked over to see Sherlock sleeping, and despite the past few days, worried that perhaps he’d gone to sleep for good again.

“Sherlock?” he whispered. “Sherlock, wake up!” He shook the detective’s shoulder until a groggy groan of protest escaped his lips.

“John? What is it? Did Lestrade call? Tell him it can wait.”

“Oh, God; sorry, Sherlock.”

“For what?”

“I just, um. I had a nightmare, and you were sleeping, and I worried you wouldn’t wake up.” He was glad it was dark, to hide his reddening face. Much to his surprise, Sherlock didn’t scoff or mock him, but instead drew closer and gave him a hug.

“I’m not going anywhere, John.” John didn’t respond, but collapsed in Sherlock’s arms. They sat like that for a long time.

After that night, Sherlock and John didn’t talk about what had happened. They ignored the events of the night and focused instead on the fast-approaching Christmas. There were decorations to be hung, gifts to be bought, and treats to be baked. And as if all the Christmas chaos wasn’t enough, Mary was now a month away from her due date, and John was starting to realize his impending fatherhood. He was stressed, and when not preparing for the holidays, he had his nose buried in a parenting book. Meanwhile, at Baker Street, Sherlock was doing the same thing - of course, when nobody else was around. Sherlock wanted to be there for John, and to do so, he had to be there for the baby.

Sherlock read all about putting babies to sleep, changing diapers, getting them to eat, how to swaddle. He practiced with a melon, as the balloon kept floating and it was impossible to wrap in blankets. Despite the fact that he could now diaper in his sleep and swaddle anything in sight, he was still nervous. He knew he wouldn’t be living with the baby, but as a friend, he’d probably be helping a lot anyway, especially if he wanted John to keep coming with him on cases.

Soon it was Christmas Eve, and Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock were sitting in front of the fireplace, Sherlock playing his violin as Mrs. Hudson drank her tea. The gifts were wrapped and under the tree, the biscuits were baked, iced, and boxed for tomorrow. Mycroft would be coming, and John, and Lestrade and Molly. It was snowing softly outside, making this truly the perfect holiday. Last year, John and Mary were together, and while Sherlock had tried to be happy for them, he was glad they were done. He didn’t plan on telling John how he felt, possibly ever, but still - it was nice to not see John with her all the time. She was mean.

Mrs. Hudson had finished her tea, and as it was getting late, she got up to go to bed. Sherlock nodded good night to her and she gave him a shoulder squeeze in return.

“Happy Christmas Eve, Sherlock.”

“And to you.” Sherlock returned his attention to his instrument when the front door downstairs banged open. The two heard frantic footsteps running upstairs before the door to the sitting room was thrown wide open. In came John, snow dusting his hair and shoulders, nose and cheeks red with cold.

“Hello,” he said, out of breath.

“John,” greeted Sherlock. “What are you doing running around in the cold? Shouldn’t you be at home.”

“Didn’t want to be there. Got a bit bored. Missed you guys.”

“Well, John, we’re happy you’re here. I’m off to bed but feel free to help yourself to some tea and biscuits,” Mrs. Hudson smiled.

“Thanks, Mrs. H.” John grinned and took his place in his red chair as Mrs. Hudson left. “So, Sherlock, Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, John.”

“How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been better. Helping Mrs. Hudson bake biscuits is exhausting. And I’m the only one tall enough to hang the lights, and Mrs. Hudson’s hip is acting up, so I’ve been, as my brother would say, ‘quite the busy bee.’” John chuckled.

“Not used to pitching in ‘round here, are you?” Sherlock smiled softly and shook his head.

“I haven’t had you around to do the chores.”

“Is that what I am? I’m joining Mrs. Hudson in saying I’m not your housekeeper. For the record.”

“No, you’ve got more value than that.” John leaned forward.

“Value? Am I like pirate’s treasure?”

“You could say that.” John nodded and sat back in his seat.

“Though, I might say you’re as valuable as a first mate.” John laughed.

“Who’s my captain, then?” Sherlock set down his instrument.

“What do you mean?”

“You said I'm a first mate. So I’ve a captain. Who’s my captain?” Sherlock blinked.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean - well, Mary’s gone, and I…”

“Sherlock?”

“Forget it.” They sat in silence, Sherlock fiddling with his hands, John staring at Sherlock’s hands. Then he swallowed, took a deep breath, and cleared his throat.

“Are you my captain?” Sherlock blinked some more. John leaned forward a bit, reached his hand out hesitantly, wanting to offer comfort but unsure of what was happening. He leaned forward more, and their faces were inches away from each other. John could feel Sherlock’s steady breathing, and then he placed his hand on the detective’s leg. Sherlock put his hand on top, but made no effort to move it. John was closing the distance between them when the door opened.

“Yoohoo - oh. I’m so sorry boys.” Mrs. Hudson stood in the door, looking more apologetic than surprised. In fact, the situation seemed not to faze her at all. “I just came up to put a few gifts under the tree that I’d forgotten about. I’ll just leave these here… good night, boys.” She smiled, embarrassed, and hurried downstairs, closing the door behind her. Sherlock and John sat frozen for a moment before Sherlock started chuckling. It started quiet, but soon rose to an excited giggle.

“Sherlock!”

“I know you think it ‘ruined the mood’, but I think it’s amusing.” John rolled his eyes and pretended to sulk. He wasn’t really mad, but Sherlock deserved it. “Oh, come on, you’re not really angry about this?” John did his best not to break. Sherlock sighed. “Fine, we’ll start over. We’ll do it right.” He stood up and held a hand out to John. They went up to the roof, even though Sherlock was in his pyjamas and it was still snowing.

“Sherlock, I’m freezing.” John grumped.

“This’ll only take a second.” Sherlock took John’s hands in his own and looked him in the eye. “John. John Watson. You’re my best friend in the world. You’re always there for me, you’ve always got my back. Before you, I didn’t have many friends, and the ones I did have, I didn’t treat right. So when you came along, and we got on so easily, I thought, well, that’s what friends do. But you weren’t like Molly or Lestrade, or Mrs. H. You weren’t even like Mycroft - though, to be fair, nobody’s like him. And I realized we were different. It took a coma to realize this, but I love you. Romantically. And I also want you sexually. I am physically attracted to you and I romantically want to be with you forever. I hope you feel the same or a similar way.” John chuckled, despite the confession and despite the cold. Of course Sherlock would tell him like this. Unconventional. Scientific. And yet, sentimental all the same.

“Oh, God, yes,” said John, and then he didn’t worry about the cold, because he was wrapped in Sherlock’s arms and they were kissing and there was only warmth. John wasn’t sure how long they’d been kissing when they pulled apart, and John started shivering again, and Sherlock led him downstairs, down to the sitting room, down the hall, and into the bedroom.

One month and five days later, the boys found themselves at Angelo’s, discussing everything from changing John’s old Baker Street room into a nursery, to cooing over photos of the new baby - Rosamund Angela Watson-Holmes, after Molly’s middle name and for Angelo, the two people the boys gave the most credit to for their new happiness. Anniversaries, in Sherlock’s mind, weren’t so annoying after all.


End file.
